


underneath this hood you kiss (i tick like a bomb)

by weird_bird (2weird4)



Category: DCU (Comics), Midnighter and Apollo (Comics)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Rated M for Midnighter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 15:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2weird4/pseuds/weird_bird
Summary: After they met, Midnighter thought he’d never be lonely again. Now he's proven to himself that, for better or worse (for worse,for worse),he can be alone even in the age of Apollo, even if it hurts like a bitch.They’re not Midnighter-and-Apollo anymore, and maybe they won’t ever be again. It's like learning that the law of gravity isn't a fact of every universe. There’s Midnighter, and there’s Apollo, and there’s still a gulf of hurt between them.





	underneath this hood you kiss (i tick like a bomb)

**Author's Note:**

> set after _midnighter_ and before _midnighter and apollo_ but influenced by _the authority._
> 
> title from ["hood"](https://youtube.com/watch?v=OOpkr8uNWpk) by perfume genius.

The blood Midnighter spits out of his mouth mingles with the rain pouring down his chin. Looking around the courtyard, he makes sure all the idiots who came after him are down for the count for real. A hand twitches, and he ends that sharpish with a kick to the head. Then he steps backwards and sits on a log fallen in a storm, meaning to take a breather before he gets the hell out of this dump.

And of course, the second he sits his ass on the flimsy middle, the wood creaks and collapses like wet cardboard.

With a groan, Midnighter flops backwards in the grime and stares up at the lintball sky. Lightning cracks it open again, and he grunts another pathetic complaint when a fresh bucketful pours over his body.

This weather really takes the pleasure out of a good ass-kicking.

Sitting up, he massages his forehead, then remembers to wipe the blood on his gloves off down his thighs. About half of it isn’t his. He stretches and _swears_ he feels his back pop. Maybe it’s just psychological.

Sure, he used to be somebody who liked a nice, big, atmospheric thunderstorm. The cover of darkness is still always appreciated. But shit’s changed now. 

He’s got a thing for sunshine.

Picking himself up off the ground, he cracks his knuckles, rolls his head around. Time to get the fuck out of here.

This place’s being watched, though. Obviously not by the poor bastards who followed him here, who’ve probably all kissed a sweet goodbye to the mortal coil at this point, but by whatever sick fuck sent them after the Midnighter to fucking die. So it’s no place to call a Door.

He folds his arms behind his head and huffs up at the sky. Gets water up his nose for his troubles. Shaking his soaked jacket over his shoulders, he trudges out of the junkyard and down the narrow road. 

There’s a woman selling bananas from a cart, holding a flimsy pink umbrella over her head. When she sees him, she rattles her cart uphill probably faster than she ever has in her life. Midnighter tried to give her a reassuring smile, he swears. But he’s been told that he maybe has a few too many teeth for that.

He’s good at being on his own. Moving through a city in his shades or in his cowl, he’s equally comfortable, regardless of the comfort level of the people around him. Used to being on his own. For a while there, he had himself convinced that alone was his default state.

Technically, he _isn’t_ alone anymore. The good news just hasn’t sunk in all the way yet. He and Apollo--they’re gonna try to make this work again.

This time, though, they’re not rushing in so fast. They ain’t moving in together like a couple of lesbians and living out of each other’s pockets. They’re _dating,_ like, actually _dating._ Going on _dates._

Good thing Midnighter’s dating muscles are in good shape. He had a Grindr, for fuck’s sake. He tried. He did.

When Apollo held him in his arms, he looked up at him and like the complete lunatic he is, he told him to say the word and he would _move on._

He would move on! Like he hadn’t been trying and absolutely fucking failing.

Here’s the thing: he knows how to flirt, how to catch a guy’s eye and keep it. Midnighter is hot. Midnighter is a good goddamn lay. He can suck cock like nobody’s business, take it, too. He’s a decent date. He’ll pay for coffee. He’ll buy the movie tickets. And if there’s ever gonna be a fight, he knows exactly how it’s gonna blow up in their faces and leaves before it can.

Before he met Apollo, maybe that would have worked for him forever. But damn it, he’s been ruined now. He knows he’s not meant for dating around or single life, that he’s meant for something else.

He’s meant for him.

 _Made_ for him, he thinks sometimes.

While the thought might be sentimental, he somehow can’t see it as weakness. Apollo has always made him stronger.

The question in Midnighter’s mind as he crosses the street, heedless of honking cars, and goes to the nearest fold-out stall to buy himself a bowl of hot pho, is whether he makes Apollo stronger.

Midnighter feels no insecurity in his ability to have Apollo’s back in battle. Apollo might have liked to look out for him--back then, when he was his man--but Midnighter doesn’t die easy. It’s not about their powers. 

It’s that Apollo is a god, and as much brutality as they’ve survived, Midnighter still hurt him probably worse than anybody ever had or could. In his two hearts he might hope he won’t do it ever again. His computer tells him different. He can, and he will. And that’s so much less than Apollo deserves.

Apollo’s beautiful enough to blind. As gentle as he could be harsh. Bold and sharp. Midnighter won’t fool himself into thinking that he didn’t take other men into his arms, into his bed. Maybe they made him breakfast, which he loves even if it doesn’t do shit for his sustenance. Maybe they made him laugh.

That thought stings.

Staring moodily down into his bowl, he heaves a sigh. After they met, Midnighter thought he’d never be lonely again. Now he's proven to himself that, for better or worse (for worse, _for worse),_ he can be alone even in the age of Apollo, even if it hurts like a bitch. 

They’re not Midnighter-and-Apollo anymore, and maybe they won’t ever be again. It's like learning that the law of gravity isn't a fact of every universe. There’s Midnighter, and there’s Apollo, and there’s still a gulf of hurt between them.

But he doesn’t want to see him to his door before he heads back to his apartment alone. He doesn’t want to wait before he texts him back, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t _want_ to be safe and sidestep the plunge into commitment.

If he could turn back time, he would wake up in their bed, wherever that bed was, every morning from the beginning until the end, and there would be no end he would not embrace, not when he was with him. He would _marry_ him. Like clockwork, renew their vows. They would raise a child, like Apollo always talked about when he was stuffed with sun and lazy with love. 

Now, though. Now a fight doesn’t mean Apollo above his head, at his back, at his shoulder. Now morning doesn’t mean his head on Apollo’s chest, wondering what someone like him might be dreaming until he wakes and tells him, voice deep with sleep, glorious hair crushed into a halo around his head.

Well. He does still think of what he might dream.

He thinks about whether Apollo might still dream the same things as he does.

Another crack of thunder, and rain lashes across tin roofs and into his eyes. Midnighter slides over a big handful of bills--fuck inflation--and shoves his hands back into his pockets. Keeps on walking. He just has to get to the emptiest place he can, call a Door, scram.

Water creeps down inside his suit. He doesn’t really feel the cold in any debilitating sense, but being soaked to clamminess makes him feel like an angry cat anyway.

Turning his face up to the sun, he suddenly squints. From behind the clouds, there breaks a light. Instead of staying up in the grey fuzz, though, that light descends.

That light is golden, and it is gorgeous, and it is not _the_ sun.

Only his.

“What are you doing here?” Midnighter’s voice feels hoarse from disuse. Without realizing it, he’s gone days without talking again.

Apollo, falling out of the sky like an angel. “What are _you_ doing here? You’re just not gonna give me a call when you’re in trouble now, is that it?” Apollo’s silhouette, shoulders wound, is all righteous wrath.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Midnighter drawls, an irrepressible grin, all his teeth and all, stretching across the part of his face not covered by his drenched cowl, “you know how much I love it when you tell me off.” He spreads his arms wide. “What are you gonna do, spank me?”

“I’m giving it some serious thought.” Swooping down, he hooks his arms under Midnighter’s, then lifts him against his chest.“If you needed help--”

“I didn’t need help.” Midnighter had it _well_ in hand. He’d be back in Opal City by now if he hadn’t taken the time out of his day to be maudlin. Not that he’s admitting that to Apollo.

Apollo’s body runs so warm. It’s not good for him to be using so much sun energy when it’s so overcast. He narrows his eyes down at Midnighter, and Midnighter goes ahead and snuggles greedily right into his neck. That’s the spot. “If you needed help, would you have asked?”

Midnighter barely has to think about it. “Nah.”

A hand grips his biceps hard enough to bruise, and Apollo shakes him into meeting his blazing eyes. He’s always loved his eyes. It’s at least his sixth favorite body part on him. “I need you to ask.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” As he clings to him, steam hisses from his duster, drying in a real hurry. 

“No thanks to you,” Apollo says gruffly.

“What, were you stalking me?”

“Who are you kidding. You’re flattered.” Apollo gives him the smirk that’s so often some unfortunate soul’s last sight. Not that Midnighter needed the reminder that he’s the sexiest being in the universe. “I think of less as stalking, more as… _hunting.”_

Want rips down his spine. _Yeah,_ he remembers the playful danger of the chase before Apollo pinned him down and took what was his. His rough, gloved hand strokes down Apollo’s neck, fingertips resting on his collarbones. “I didn’t think you’d come.” Sure, he’d crunched the numbers on some pathetic reflex. The odds hadn’t come up in his favor. Nevertheless, here Apollo is, and he’s a feature, not a bug. Just as Midnighter’s mouth presses flat in unhappiness at his accidental admission, though, there’s warm, warm lips on his. 

“I always want to come.”

Midnighter slows their kiss too soon just to smirk at him.

“Oh, come on.” Apollo looks amused despite himself. “I want to come when you need me.”

“I always need you to come. For, on, in--”

Apollo shuts him up with a second, harder kiss, and Midnighter’s hand curves around the back of his head, thumb stroking down the wet shell of his ear.

“Let’s go home,” he mumbles against his mouth. He pulls back just enough to call, “Door!”

“Home?” Apollo asks mildly.

Midnighter lifts a shoulder. “Or my place. Whichever comes first.” Arms wrapped around Apollo’s neck, he dreams a waking dream, that they step through the Door and into a shared life, a future side-by-side (not that he doesn’t love Apollo on top), a world of possibilities beyond even his computer’s calculations.

They step through the Door.


End file.
